Staying Power

by Judith Cutler

  By some miracle she was able to shuffle her car into a space right in front of her house – something to celebrate in itself. But she wouldn’t go in yet: she’d high-tail it to Sainsbury’s – if she could find a half-bottle of champagne, that would be brilliant. And if she could only find full-size, well, some of it might have to retire to the fridge overnight.

  Clutching her booty, she turned her Yale key in her front door. It moved, but the door didn’t. Tensing, she tried again. Had some bastard bolted the door from the inside? Was he still busy doing over her house?

  She parked the bottle carefully and breathed deeply. Tears wouldn’t help. And – on the off-chance – tried the Chubb lock. The door swung open and the alarm began its opening chorus. What the hell?

  As she retrieved the champagne and shut the door, she found a scribbled note.

  Your nice nieghbour offerred to lock up proper. We thought it was best.

  Tony

  Think your home looks great. Hope you do.

  And it did. As he’d done upstairs with the first batch of carpets, he’d moved the furniture – what little decent stuff of Cassie’s she’d kept – roughly where he thought it should be. Tomorrow she might move it. Tonight – she would celebrate. She had a home. The carpets and Tony said so. Flinging off her jacket, she gauged a line in the living room and – could she still do it? – turned a cartwheel. And back. And then – for the sheer pleasure of it under her skin – walked on her hands to the kitchen.

  And found magic. Tony had put all the electrical appliances back in place, and swept up. Back on her feet, she pirouetted from one end to the other. She returned the same way, pausing long enough only to grab a glass. To hell with the fact it was a Woolie’s water-tumbler.

  She put it back. Could she trust herself to drink enough and no more? She’d come close to danger point in the autumn. She didn’t want to spend the winter going through a repeat of her drying out. Colin? But all she got was his answerphone. She didn’t mention the house in case he felt under pressure. Instead she spoke about a shopping expedition. ‘Lizzie suggested she and I did it, but I’d much prefer your company. And you can tell me all about the chemists’ break-ins while we shop till we drop.’

  No, she couldn’t be about to cry. Not again. She pulled herself straight. OK, faute de mieux, what about Pat the Path? They both had something to celebrate, didn’t they?

  ‘I can’t wait for you to see it, Kate,’ Patrick said, gazing intently into her eyes. ‘Or to see you on it. Tell me, have you ever ridden a bike?’

  ‘Student days. Pillion on an inadequate Honda.’

  They were in a pleasant Indian restaurant near Sainsbury’s, outside most of the champagne as an aperitif and a meal rather larger than was wise. Now – having congratulated themselves on drinking only water with the food – they were considering the possibility of something else.

  ‘We did say, of course, that we should have coffee at your place tonight, didn’t we?’

  Kate nodded. Was it a euphemism? Did she want it to be a euphemism? Would the loos have a condom dispensing machine?

  No. She didn’t want sex with him. Not yet. It certainly wouldn’t be making love. And she didn’t want the first sexual encounter after Robin to be simply recreational. Did she?

  ‘I’ve got some malt,’ she said neutrally.

  ‘I don’t drink when I’m on my bike,’ he said. His leathers hung in her hall. ‘The lot we sank earlier should be metabolised by now. Actually, do you have decaffeinated?’

  ‘Decaffeinated espresso,’ she said with conviction and with more amusement than she hoped showed.

  But he was decidedly more amorous in tone, if not in proposition, as he regaled her with tales of his cycles.

  ‘But why have you never ridden one? You’d look so good in the gear for a start. The leathers. Very sexy.’

  Did he mean sexy as in desirable or simply as in a fashionable good thing? Could have been either. Especially as she’d seen no reason not to have a gentle finger of Glenfiddich, and she was suddenly tired. Tired in her own home. It had walls and carpets and it would soon be – No, it was home now.

  ‘… apart from the designs, which are so flattering. All those lovely colour combinations. I’d see you in – yes, scarlet and black. And imagine, the feel of it – soft, supple, under your fingers. Like silk next to your skin. Smooth as silk.’

  The phone interrupted. Not an emergency, though. Only Colin saying he was on for the next morning, after football of course, provided they could look at shirts, too. But by the time she’d got back from the kitchen, where she’d taken the call, Patrick was standing up peering at one of the mirrors Cassie had left. At, rather than into. And he was ready to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Just like that?’ Colin asked, as they headed down the M5. They’d come straight from the school football pitch where the BB had been playing. Considering how late it was in the year, the day was surprisingly mild, though they’d been promised heavy rain as punishment later. ‘Not so much as a glance at your stairs and an amorous sigh?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s a man that needs to be seduced?’

  ‘Can I be bothered? God knows where I stand with him.’

  ‘Must be funny having a relationship with someone who knows exactly what’s in your body.’

  ‘Not as bad as a gynaecologist.’

  ‘Not as good. I should think one of them would know how to give a girl a good time.’

  ‘Tell you what, you find out!’

  ‘I’d rather have an evening with the gorgeous Cary Grant. How did your evening with him go?’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew about that! Oh, the sodding grapevine, I suppose. We had a good evening, but neither of us suggested doing it again.’

  ‘He’s a nice kid.’

  ‘Sure. And we had a pleasant drink and talked shop, and a pleasant Chinese and talked shop.’

  ‘But you didn’t have a pleasant fuck and talk shop?’

  ‘DC Roper: this is not a suitable time or place for this sort of conversation. We are proceeding in a southerly direction hoping to inspect Fivers in Worcester. And we shouldn’t be doing eighty-five, either.’

  ‘No, Ma’am. A good win, your team had. A couple of good players.’

  They thought of someone who wouldn’t ever stand on the sidelines again, and were silent.

  ‘How did you get on at the doctor’s the other day?’ Colin asked eventually, as they peeled off at the junction for Worcester North.

  ‘Doctor’s? Bloody hell, Colin, I only went and forgot, didn’t I?’

  ‘So you must be feeling better.’

  ‘No excuse for missing an appointment. I’ll have to go and blandish the receptionist with a tale of being on the tracks of a serial killer. And talking of being ill, what did you want to tell me about the drug thefts?’

  ‘I’ll give you the print-outs if you pop in to us before you go on to Lloyd House on Monday. See if you can see anything odd for yourself.’

  ‘Meanwhile, what do you see?’

  ‘There’s a lot of stuff you’d expect. Tranks and stuff. But apart from that, there’s only one thing that sticks out. Vitamin tablets. And I checked, before you ask. They’re not the Smarties sort. They’re little diddy things, like homeopathic tablets. Maybe a little bigger.’

  ‘The ones they’re trying to put a health warning on – too many are supposed to be bad for you, or something?’

  ‘Nope. Vitamin B1, these. Not B6. Jesus. Is this where the tail-back for Worcester starts?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look as if I’m doing? U-turning. We’re going somewhere else!’

  So there they were in Redditch, having penetrated a traffic system that would have had her abandoning the car on a double yellow and walking. Preferably home. But they were here to do a job. Even if Colin’s shirts were on the agenda.

  Plastic Christmas trees, real Christmas trees, plastic wreath
s, real wreaths. Plenty of those. But nothing in the leather line, and no shirts Colin would even pick up and inspect.

  ‘Come on: a bite to eat and we’ll head north. I know we’re nearer to Warwick, but – hell, I suppose we really ought to do Warwick.’

  ‘Where would you prefer, Colin?’

  ‘Lichfield. I like Lichfield. And we could take in Tamworth: there are a couple of good quality factory shops you should see. But, Kate, it’ll all be like this, won’t it?’ He spread his hands miserably at the tat. ‘And all couples with too many kids buying too many tacky presents.’

  ‘It is nearly Christmas,’ she said, mildly. ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘Clive’s got family back in Wales. They think he’s straight. Tough for both of us, usually, but he goes because his Dad’s coughing up his lungs with pit dust. I usually put myself down for the Christmas Day rota. What about you?’

  ‘My name’s top of the list. Come on, we’ll get some food and booze in and have a great Christmas evening at my place. What do you say?’

  ‘Apart from yes? What about Pat the Path? Won’t he be expecting you to join him in a leatherwear party?’

  ‘Tough if he is. I can’t quite see him and Cassie hitting it off. Oh, yes, we’ll have to fit Cassie into the schedule. I can’t let her down.’

  ‘Of course not. We’ll spike her gin. Great.’ He gave her a quick hug. ‘Now I can face Fivers ad infinitum.’

  ‘What I want to know is what bastards reported that there was good quality stuff in these shops! They should be hanged with tinsel and stuffed with festive balls.’

  ‘And crowned with chaplets of plastic holly. OK. OK. But you’ve got your shirts and refused to let me buy that lovely dress.’

  ‘Which was designed for someone six foot tall with no hips. And – Jesus Christ, Kate. Cast your beadies on that lot.’ Grabbing her firmly by the wrist, Colin pulled her towards yet another shop. ‘Under a fiver they may not be, but who’s arguing? Leather warehouse.’

  The shop sign was so temporary Kate was afraid the next gust of wind would bring it down. They’d done no more than put piles of bags and jackets in the window. Punters could get the message – no-frill bargains.

  Inside the smell of hot, sticky bodies battled it out with the scent of leather. Kate reeled.

  Colin gripped her arm tightly. ‘Lack of air or excess of emotion?’

  ‘Both. Come on. Let’s check those bags out. Yes: look at the label. Firenze. Leather-lined. There’s the little city crest. And those shoes. Firenze. Leather-lined.’ She stroked a pair. ‘Hand-made, I’d say. The sort of thing Alan Grafton spoke about with such love. They’d probably fetch well over a hundred pounds in a legitimate store. And someone’s flogging them for fifteen. And fifteen for that bag!’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘We talk to the management. Now. I don’t trust this place to be here when we come back all nice and official on Monday.’

  ‘I’ve never done an interview clutching Jaguar carrier bags before.’ Colin flapped them.

  ‘First time for everything, isn’t there? Right. Into battle.’

  The kid on the checkout was almost certainly under-age and definitely overworked. Mention of management brought tears to her eyes. ‘Dunno where they are. Honest. They just told us cash only, not credit cards, and pushed off. Honest.’

  ‘No credit cards. OK. What about cheques?’ Kate asked.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘If I want to pay by cheque, who would I make it out to?’

  ‘Oh, we got a stamp. We do that.’

  ‘OK, then. Say I want to buy these shoes. Here’s my cheque and here’s my card. Now, I prefer to fill it all in myself. Tell me who to put here,’ Colin asked, smiling patiently.

  ‘No. I said, we got a stamp. We fill it in.’

  ‘When we’ve handed it over?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Look, there’s ever such a queue. I got to serve people.’

  Kate looked at Colin who nodded. As one they produced their ID cards. ‘Like I said, we want to talk to your manager. Now. We could ask you to shut the shop until he comes back.’

  ‘Get out the fucking way, you stupid cow.’ Someone shoved Kate in the back so hard she nearly fell. ‘You don’t like the stuff, you don’t have to fucking buy it. Just shift your fucking arse so we can.’

  There was an ugly murmur in support. There must have been some thirty people backed up.

  Kate smiled at the girl on the till. ‘Looks like you’d better find him fast, doesn’t it? Before Tamworth has its first Christmas shopping riot.’ She turned to the man who’d pushed her. ‘Keep it quiet, Sir, will you? We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, would we? I’m quite sure no one would want to be buying dodgy goods, would they? Not if you have to give them up if they’re needed as evidence?’

  ‘Here – who’s talking about stolen goods? You want to shut your fucking mouth!’ A man was pushing his way to the front of the queue. Those at the back weren’t happy.

  ‘So long as you open yours – somewhere nice and private – that’s fine,’ Kate said, projecting her voice like an old-time actor-manager. ‘Just lead the way and we’ll follow, won’t we, Constable?’

  The office they found themselves in would never have been spacious but was now so cramped it was difficult to sit in the chairs which the man had spirited up from somewhere. If they’d been inspecting it for a fire certificate it would have failed miserably. It would have been somewhere below zero on the general health and safety scale, too, the way his kettle, fan heater, lap-top computer and electric razor shared a socket divider.

  Computer? In this mess? Kate caught Colin’s eye, raising her eyebrows in the computer’s direction. Colin’s nod was almost as imperceptible as hers.

  ‘So what’s all this about stolen goods? I shall sue if I’ve lost any sales.’

  ‘That lot down there would buy the Crown Jewels hot from the Tower provided they could get them for twenty quid,’ Colin said. ‘And I didn’t hear the word stolen until you used it. All Detective Sergeant Power and I want is a quick look at your invoices and receipts. I mean, you’re selling lovely stuff, Sir, aren’t you? And no one would call it expensive.’

  ‘It’s all legit. Not even bankrupt stock.’

  ‘Great, Mr – I don’t think I caught your name, Sir?’ Colin produced his pocket-book and held his ball-point ready. He might have been Dixon of Dock Green, his smile was so cosy, his posture so stereotyped.

  Kate watched the man riffle through his wallet. He might almost have been selecting the card he flicked on to the desk. This was so filthy she got her fingers dirty just picking up the card, which she passed to Colin.

  ‘Right – Mr Edmonds. Thanks.’ Colin unobtrusively slipped it into his pocket book. ‘Now, all we need to know is who supplies you. That’s all. Who knows, we may even want to buy some items ourselves, once we know everything’s OK. Real bargains, aren’t they?’

  Kate didn’t reckon that Marten-with-a-Y Edmonds believed Colin’s patter any more than she did, but he got up and made great show of moving slippery piles of polythene-wrapped leather so he could get to a filing cabinet so old it might have been army surplus.

  And failed, of course, to find the papers he wanted.

  ‘What I’ll do is get my secretary to find everything you want and pop it in the post to you,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think we can wait quite that long. Do you, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Constable. Perhaps we’d better close the premises after all.’ It wasn’t often Kate employed police jargon, but once in a while she didn’t object to giving it an airing.

  Colin pushed the phone towards him. ‘Maybe your secretary could tell you now? Or your boss? Come on, Mr Edmonds, you know as well as we do there’s something strange with your suppliers. Not you. Don’t think that we suspect you of any wrong-doing.’

  Edmonds pushed the phone away. ‘Monday. It’ll have to be Monday.’ He was beginning to sweat, but it could just
have been the intolerable fug building up.

  Kate leaned to pull out the fan-heater plug. ‘You want to watch that lot. The socket’s very hot,’ she said. And could have bitten her tongue off. The last thing she wanted was to give him the idea of a smart bit of arson. In for a penny … She pulled the splitter from the socket. ‘Before we go we’ll tape over that, Mr Edmonds. In the interests of health and safety. And suggest to our colleagues in the Fire Service they might like to talk to you.’

  ‘But we’ll only be here—’ He stared. Two bitten off short tongues in the room.

  ‘Only be here till when, Mr Edmonds?’ Colin was on his feet, leaning over that filthy desk. ‘Only be here until you can scarper with all the stock and all the paperwork? I think not.’

  ‘All we need,’ said Kate encouragingly, ‘is names and paperwork. Then I can go and buy myself a nice pair of shoes and Detective Constable Roper can buy that briefcase he’s got his eye on. In fact, we could put all the paperwork in one of those cases. Now, let me make out a cheque.’ She flourished her pen.

  ‘No, please – have one on the house, Sergeant – Sergeant Powell, is it?’

  ‘Sergeant Power. West Midlands CID. Currently on attachment to the Fraud Squad. No, thanks, Sir. I’d rather pay in full. Wouldn’t want my boss to have any thoughts about bribery and corruption, would we? All I need is a receipt, please. And, of course, the name to make this cheque out to.’

  The poor man was writhing. Colin waded through leatherwear to open the door, leaning casually against the jamb. In her mind’s eye Kate could see the overworked air crawling out, with a slightly cooler supply coming in at nose level. Not much cooler.

  Colin shut the door. It started to get hot again.

  At last, the sweat dripping off him, Edmonds reached for a briefcase of his own. He hadn’t taken advantage of the stock downstairs. ‘I’ll call my boss.’

  ‘Fine. So long as you tell us the number you’re dialling. We need to keep our records straight, even if your company doesn’t. And who, of course.’ It was a long time since Kate had had the chance to use such an evil smile. If she wasn’t careful she’d blow it by letting her dimples show.